


Laws of the Tower

by blackdiamondskies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Abusive & Domineering Adults, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Bonding Through Shared Trauma, But lots of HP Canon characters too!, Canon is good up to Book 4, Captivity, Controlling adults, Draco Malfoy-centric, Escape Plans, Harry & Draco are still wizards, Harry-centric, Kidnapping, Lots of OCs - Freeform, M/M, Narcissa Black Malfoy is a Good Parent, Obviously because of the setting, Secret Identity, Seriously the adults suck in this, Then obviously Canon goes in the trash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24400165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackdiamondskies/pseuds/blackdiamondskies
Summary: It's 1996.  Harry Potter is missing.  The Dark Lord is rising. Draco Malfoy has dreams of blue forests and someone who cries out to him from the darkness, lost and alone ...A Drarry Sentinels!AU fic set during the autumn of 5th Year.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	1. Tower Prime

**Author's Note:**

> I frickin' love Sentinel AUs. Such a rare breed of AU too. I wish there were as many of these as there were ABO fics. 
> 
> Be the change you wish to see in the world! Have a Sentinel AU fic.
> 
> It's been a long time since I read the HP books. Let me know if there are any glaring inconsistencies!

_____ 

i  
_____

It had been a bad morning, to say the least. A bad week, really, the topping to a really bad month. He’d known that, as British Prime Minister, he’d have his work cut out for him … but this was getting ridiculous. The MPs were all acting like children, the British citizens didn’t trust anyone in government, and a series of sex scandals had severely weakened his party’s reputation. 

He was on the phone with an irritable Ambassador to China when his morning went from bad to worse.

He heard a vague flurry of raised voices on the other side of his office door before it crashed open and two men wearing stark white uniforms came barging in, his panicked secretary coming behind him. “You can’t go in, he’s on an important call—!”

The PM recognized the pair right away, even though he’d only met with them once briefly after his inauguration. They were just as imposing as they had been then, just as alien—he found himself frozen for a few moments with trepidation.

“Prime Minister Major! Hello? Hello, are you still there?” The Ambassador’s barking voice over the phone receiver knocked him out of his stupor, and he turned away from his rude guests. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Zhao, I’ll need to call you back.” He hung up the phone.

“Sir John,” the taller of the uniformed men greeted immediately. “There is some business we must discuss.”

“Prime Sentinel, I’m not sure how it works in your Tower, but in Downing Street we make _appointments_ when we wish to meet with busy politicians, and we certainly do not barge in on them in the middle of important phone calls …!” There was the faintest sensation of the brush of cobwebs against his forehead, and then the Prime Minister found that he didn’t really mind all that much. “Well, no matter. Have a seat, Prime Sentinel, Prime Guide. I can spare you one half-hour.”

The Prime Sentinel Pair gazed at each other silently for a moment, seeming to have some sort of wordless conversation. As he watched them uneasily, he realized that they probably _were_ speaking, albeit telepathically. He frowned, off-put and uneasy. He, like most outsiders, did not really understand just who or what the Sentinel Pairs were. They painted themselves as something above human, something otherworldly, and were treated as such throughout the globe. The London Tower itself had been declared an autonomous entity centuries ago, and remained separate from the British government to this day. Which begs the question …

“What brings you to my office today? I was under the impression that Tower business wasn’t any of _mine_.”

The Prime Guide gave a depreciating kind of smile and said, “Well, to put it bluntly, it’s about to become your business, as well as the business of your government.”

Prime Minister Major raised his eyebrows, taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

The Prime Sentinel put a hand on his partner’s shoulder. “There have been some decisions made in the Tower that will soon bring about quite a bit of change to our lives, and will likely affect the British populace to a great extent. We have come to discuss these changes with you, as a courtesy.”

“Good heavens, you are making me quite alarmed. What on God’s earth do you mean?”

The Prime Guide settled delicately in the chair across from John’s desk, and the Prime Sentinel settled behind him with his hands curling possessively over his (very male) Guide’s shoulders. The Prime Minister expertly suppressed a grimace. 

The Prime Guide began, his voice gentle and sweet. It sounded almost like a woman’s voice, and brought with it the same sense of comfort. “Sir John, you and all your British citizens have lived a life relatively free of the influence of the Tower for generations, due mostly to isolationist doctrines instilled by our predecessors, the late Prime Sentinel Richards and his line.”

The Prime Sentinel continued, his voice gruffer and less pleasant. “But our situation has changed, and we cannot continue as we have for the past hundred years. That is why we, as the new Primes of the Tower of London, have henceforth abolished the Richards policies and reinstated the Buckingham Agreement of 1802.”

Sir John leapt to his feet, his face white. Everyone knew that agreement, made at the turn of the 19th-Century. Romanticized and demonized in turn, it was the basis of many documentaries, academic papers, and historical fictions. Many scholars considered that period to be the height of Tower power and corruption.

“You will do so over my dead body,” Sir John gritted out. “I’ll not allow my citizens to be abducted off the street like this is _South America_! I won’t hand them over to Tower tyranny!”

The Prime Guide pointedly remained sitting, pressing a hand overtop his Sentinel’s. “That was poor wording. We of _course_ are not going to reinstate that agreement in its entirety. You’ll no-doubt agree that most of its clauses were pedantic and archaic. We have created a new Agreement, one that has taken what was _good_ about the old one and modernized it.”

“This is a historic time for us and for all of Britain, Sir John. Together we will sign the Downing Street Agreement of 1996, and the Tower of London will open its doors for the first time in over a century,” said the Prime Sentinel, and he put down a thick, ornate folder on the desk between them. The crest of the Tower sparkled gold in the light.

Sir John Major felt sick to his stomach. “If you think for one moment that I will sign _anything_ without review and approval from the House and Senate, you are sorely mistaken—”

“Forgive me, dear Prime Minister, but I will remind you that the Tower’s authority lies outside and above the government of Britain. We value your input, we _do,_ and we would prefer to have your public support in this exciting new chapter of Tower history. But it is _not_ necessary.”

The Prime Minister brought himself up to his full height, face red and voice dangerous. “You—how _dare_ you sit there and try to strong-arm me like this … it won’t work! I will expose you for the _snakes_ you are; the citizens will breaking down your doors! Get out of my office this instant, or I swear I will take down your heathen institution brick-by-brick!”

And then, the Prime Guide did something shocking. He stood up and placed his hands on either side of John’s face, gently gripping it and looking right into his eyes. Sir John was shocked into stillness. “Prime Minister, do calm yourself. Think about what we are asking. Think about what we are trying to do. Is it really so abhorrent?” His voice was so gentle, so _calming_ …

And suddenly, Sir John _was_ calm. What was he getting so worked up for, anyway? The Tower was an autonomous organization, which had no effect on himself or his government. If they wanted to change some of their in-house policies, what was it to him? In fact, it was very kind of them to think to inform him at all, let alone include him in the process.

“Yes, yes—you’re right, of course. I do beg your pardon. How silly of me to be upset!” Sir John sat back down at his desk, immediately reaching for his expensive document-signing pen. “It is wonderful to be included in your decisions, that’s not a common thing! Here we are, now where do you need me to sign?”

The Prime Guide sat as well, rubbing at his temples and smiling so sweetly at the PM. His Sentinel’s grip on his shoulders was tight. “Oh, just there, Sir Prime Minister.”

The Prime Sentinel grinned widely, watching Sir John’s pen swoop along the bottom line. “Our deepest gratitude …”

•

Every September the 1st has been the same, since the time Draco Malfoy was 11 years old: the house-elves would have Draco’s trunk packed and ready by the morning, along with a small carry-on bag that contained a bagged lunch and plenty of sweets for the trip to Hogwarts. His mother would wake him up early, with soft hands and a soothing voice, and he’d exchange his regular expensive day-robes for the Slytherin school robes that had hung in his wardrobe for the summer holidays. He’d go down to the breakfast room to share one final meal with his mother and father, and then the three of them would Apparate to a particular Apparition point off Platform 9¾. A house-elf would come behind, bearing Draco’s luggage.

But from the moment Draco woke up from a fitful sleep on the September 1st of his Fifth Year, he knew nothing would be the same. Nothing _had_ been the same for a while now, but today would really take the cake.

“Good morning, my darling,” greeted Narcissa, opening the green silk bed curtains on Draco’s antique-framed bed. She was pinched about the eyes and mouth; she’d been out late last night with her sister Bellatrix on a task for Voldemort.

“Ugh,” replied Draco, trying to massage the ache out of his temples. He’d had strange dreams again … he’d been having them a lot lately, though he could never seem to recall what they were about. Just the colour blue and impressions of a vast space … 

“A headache?” inquired Narcissa softly, brushing her son’s hair away from his face. When he nodded, she clicked her tongue in sympathy and replied, “Still feeling the effects of your father’s ritual, then. It shouldn’t last much longer, and the rewards will far outweigh the drawbacks, will they not?”

Draco emphatically agreed. The Dark Lord was an accomplished Legilimens, and hated disloyalty among his followers more than anything else. Draco had doubts about Pureblood Cause that he couldn’t possible hope to hide from Voldemort, unless he became an Occlumens. Lucius had recognized his son’s lack of _enthusiasm_ , and had worked tirelessly in secret to prepare a ritual that would “open new pathways in Draco’s mind” and give his son the power he needed to decieve The Dark Lord’s Legilimency. The three of them had performed the ritual right under Voldemort’s nose (whatever constituted as his nose) at great personal risk, all for Draco’s protection. So even though his head hurt every day, he had strange dreams of lonely cries and blue expanses, and his skin felt phantom itches that he could not scratch, Draco was determined not to complain (too much) about them. He had indeed become a powerful Occlumens, and the demon stalking their mansion’s halls would never sense Draco’s wavering loyalty. What were a few discomforts compared to that superior mental power?

“I’ll bring some headache potion to the breakfast room,” Narcissa said. “Out of bed now, up!”

Setting his feet on the carpeted floor, Draco couldn’t help but glare mutinously at the clothes laid out for him on the settee. Instead of his familiar Slytherin school robes; an abomination lay out in its place. Narcissa noticed his foul expression on her way out the door and sighed. “Don’t dawdle, dear. You know it’s necessary, though unfortunate. Take some comfort in the fact that it will look better on _you_ than any lowly Muggle.”

Draco knew that his father would expect him shortly, so he swallowed his disgust and allowed the hovering house-elves to dress him in Muggle attire. (“It’s called a suit, Master Malfoy,” Trinket squeaked at him as the buttons on the shirt did themselves up. “I didn’t ask,” said Draco imperiously, which shut her up.)

The second change of the day—it was not just the three Malfoys at the breakfast table that morning. There was Bellatrix, and McEwen, along with Uncle Rudolphus and one Carrow brother. (He’d breathed a sigh of relief when Voldemort was nowhere in sight.) The Death Eaters were intruders on what was supposed to be a happy and bittersweet meal, shared by a close family. Draco found himself sulking in-between his father and Rudolphus.

“Lucius, it appears one of the Muggles has got out of the dungeon,” sneered McEwen as he looked at Draco in his filthy Muggle _suit_. “Should I drag it back down?” Draco could practically _feel_ the man’s revulsion like a slimy film over his skin, and he shuddered.

The head of the Malfoy family sipped delicately at his tea before replying, “There are some handy water basins towards the front of the dungeon; feel free to drag _yourself_ down there and wash those odorous rags you call robes. That is if you don’t think they’ll disintegrate first.”

McEwen spewed some other nonsense, but nobody surpassed Draco’s father in the game of wit, and he knew he’d been beaten. Draco stayed out of it, shovelling eggs into his mouth and ignoring the chastising side-eye from his mother.

After a humiliating breakfast sat at a table full of Death Eaters and dressed as a Muggle, Lucius and Narcissa accompanied Draco to the Apparition Room where Trinket already waited with Draco’s school trunk. The charms on the room allowed outgoing Apparitions, but not incoming—providing a convenient travel space for the occupants of the house while remaining secure from outside access.

“I hate this!” Draco complained, tugging at the tie wrapped around his throat. “Why do we have to dress like them? Can’t we just Apparate directly to the platform like we usually do?”

Narcissa clicked her tongue in distaste, as she had just Transfigured her own elegant grey robes into a Muggle dress. “We like this no more than you, Draco, but you know the authorities have shut down the Apparition Point in King’s Cross Station.”

“Yes,” drawled Lucius, Transfiguring his robes into a suit much like Draco’s, “Ever since that Potter boy turned up missing, everything’s been tightened up for _security_ _reasons_. Truth be told, they are right to fear us—with Potter out of the way there is nothing to stop The Dark Lord’s rise to power.”

Draco sneered. Why was he the only one who saw Potter for what he truly was? The Dark Lord, all the adults, even his father—they all treated Potter like some dangerous enemy when Draco knew he was just an arrogant, stupid _child_ who wasn’t worth half a knut. The whole Wizarding World was in an uproar because their Golden Boy was missing, but Draco would bet his broomstick that Potter just up and ran away scared. _Pathetic._

The new Apparition point was a little Muggle lost-and-found office, manned by an Auror who watched over all arrivals with hawk-like eyes. When the Malfoys Apparated into the room, his expression turned sour and his hand naturally went to his wand pocket.

“Auror Tanaki, what a pleasure to see you,” drawled Lucius as he stiffly submitted himself to a Dark artefact search, followed by Narcissa and Draco. Draco opened his mouth to loudly protest when Taranaki opened his trunk for a search of the contents but was halted by a tap on the lower back by his father’s walking stick.

“How is your mother? Still wasting away in the Janus Thickery Ward, is she? The poor thing. I was thinking of making a rather large donation to St. Mungo’s, but I have yet to decide which department could use the funds.”

Taranaki went red in the face, and hastily shut Draco’s trunk without searching further. “Clear. The platform barrier is to the right of this room and down a-ways. Have a nice day.”

Trinket piled Draco’s things on a nearby luggage cart, and then bowed and disappeared. After a minor temper tantrum, Draco took hold of the cart and pushed it towards the door. Lucius cast an expert Notice-Me-Not charm on his family and said, “Here we go then. Try not to let any of them touch you.”

Draco had never seen so many Muggles in one place. Having always stayed far away from them, he wasn’t used to the sheer number of their crowds, numbers far greater than those in Diagon Alley or the Ministry of Magic. There were no owls, nothing flying or hovering in the air, no sense of magic at all, and the harsh light of Muggle lamps cast strange static shadows over the scurrying people and unfamiliar objects. Draco hovered close by his Father’s elbow and pushed the luggage cart with as few fingers as possible.

On they went, a handsome family bustling past unsuspecting Muggles like they belonged there; past dirty train platforms and a bespectacled station employee who checked his useless and inferior pocket watch; past boring Muggle men in their suits and Muggle women in their obscene outfits; past a pair of officials in white uniforms with large shiny badges on their shoulders.

Draco walked closer and closer to his father, feeling like all these Muggles were somehow _touching_ him, despite how careful Draco was being. His head hurt. He felt anxious and violated, and shrunk further as the strangest feeling crawled over his skin and up to his brain. It was gentle and cold at the same time. _Come out, come out,_ it seemed to whisper; _we’re looking for someone, could it be you?_ Draco shook his head, trying to shake out the ridiculous feeling. A sensation could not _speak_ , and he was not truly feeling it anyway. He was imagining things due to his anxiety.

The feeling persisted, however, and became more and more physical until Draco was forced to stop outright and bring his hands to his head. He honestly expected to be able to touch that cold, clammy force. His fingertips met only chilled skin and little beads of sweat.

Neither Draco nor his parents saw the taller, white-uniformed Muggle snap around towards them, his eyes narrowed and focused. They did not see the way he struggled to find what he was looking for, the way his partner placed a guiding hand on his lower back and brought that struggle to an end.

They didn’t see him, but they _did_ hear him. “You there! Halt, by the authority of the Sentinel Tower of London!”

Lucius sent an unconcerned eye over in that direction, but Narcissa didn’t bother. She had something more important to take her attention. “Draco, darling, you look pale. Poor thing, you’re overwhelmed by all these filthy Muggles around, aren’t you?”

Draco was becoming very alarmed, as the cold, wafting force suddenly felt different, it felt dominant and commanding, and it seemed to press against his head and shoulders as if trying to get in. “I don’t know! I feel so strange, Mother. It’s like something is _touching_ me, but not quite—I can’t explain it. Maybe some form of Legilimency …?”

Lucius looked around suspiciously and then noticed that the Muggles in white uniforms were calling after them. They were weaving their way through the crowds and making direct eye contact with him, even though it should be impossible. Lucius frowned, wondering if he had miscast the Notice-Me-Not charm, but ultimately dismissed it as unimportant. He wandlessly cast it again and then turned away. “Shore up your Occlumency defences, Draco. It is likely a classmate, testing his skills from a distance and hoping to catch you off-guard. Foolish. No one can break your mental barriers, not after our ritual!”

“Come on, darling,” prompted Narcissa, putting a hand on her son’s shoulder. “The platform’s just over there, let’s get you on your way.” They started to move again, but a loud, authoritative and unexpected voice interrupted them.

“You three by Platform Seven, I said _halt!”_

They turned sharply at that, looking on as the same two Muggles in white uniforms continued to approach them, the taller one’s intent gaze never wavering from their faces.

“Stay behind us, Draco,” said Lucius.

“Why are they still looking at us? I felt you cast the charm,” muttered Narcissa to her husband. "Are they wizards?"

“I don’t know, but I’m putting and end to this.” Lucius flicked his wrist expertly, and his wand came away from his walking stick and into his palm. No more wandless magic; it was time to get serious. He waved it in a complicated figure-eight pattern, as discreetly as he could, and cast an advanced warding charm on the Muggles that would cause temporary short-term memory loss and disorientation. It would waylay their progress; make them forget what they were doing and to whom they’d been talking. “That should do it,” said Lucius with satisfaction.

But to the Malfoy’s utter shock, it didn’t work. That is to say, it did at _first—_ the taller Muggle’s eyes unfocused for just a moment—but the other one shouted in alarm and ran to put both palms on his partner’s back. He closed his eyes with a grunt of effort and seemingly dispelled the charm with nothing more than sheer willpower. The taller Muggles eye’s refocused and zeroed in on Lucius, and the gaze did not waver again.

“Mother? Father? Who are these people? What’s going on?” Draco’s tone was shaky and nervous. He rubbed at his temple, wondering whether he was still feeling the alien force pressing down on his brain or just the remembered echoes of it.

Narcissa, unlike her husband, was not interested in being discreet. She snapped her wand into her hand, held it aloft for every nearby eye to see, and pointed it maliciously towards the stalking Muggle who had somehow brushed off her husband’s magic. “Imperio,” she called boldly. She would sooner have this disgusting Muggle rip out its own eyes than continue looking at her precious family for one more second.

The taller Muggle didn’t even stumble. The curse seemed to bounce right off him as the smaller Muggle let out a throaty yell of effort and broke out into a sweat. “It’s Empathy, it has to be!” he hissed and glared daggers at Narcissa. The taller Muggle growled at them like a beast, causing a shocked Narcissa to recoil behind her husband.

Upon closer examination, the more towering Muggle was the most intimidating man Draco had ever seen, Muggle or Wizard. Which made no sense. His Aunt Bella was a literal psychopath; his house was full of torture-hungry Death Eaters, his own _father_ should seem more intimidating. But there was a presence to this man, a natural power that exuded from his pores and seemed to press down on Draco’s back and his shoulders, wanting him to bend, to kneel. _Submit_ , the power whispered to him, and his legs went all shaky. _Submit to me._

Draco’s brain caught up with his line of thinking, and he blanched—who _were_ these people? Why was he feeling such strange things in their presence? He crowded in close behind his mother, peering warily over her shoulder as the white-uniformed officers finally came to stand before them.

“How dare you address my family so disrespectfully!” hissed Lucius coldly, bringing himself to his full height and attempting to intimidate the man. It was his opening move; Draco thought it smart to make sure he had the first word. Lucius Malfoy was the one to decide when a conversation started and where it would go—never the other way around. “How dare you even _look_ at us? Who do you think you are?”

The tall Muggle flashed an official-looking badge in Lucius’s direction. “I am Sentinel Barrigar of the Royal Tower of London. This is my Guide, Allerton Barrigar. We are on patrol in Kings Cross Station to identify new Potentials following the recent Downing Agreement of 1996. And you, Sir and Madam, are in violation of Sentinel Tower law, Section IX, Subsection B: all Persons with sense or empathic Potential are to report to the Tower within three days of coming online or risk hefty fines and imprisonment! On top of that, I have now tallied _three_ counts of Empathic assault on a Tower Sentinel pair. That’s a serious offence!” By the time he was finished, the Mr Sentinel Barrigar was red-faced and angry.

Lucius and Narcissa shared a nebulous look, but it was Narcissa who responded, her lip curled into a sneer. “We do not know of what you speak. My husband and I do not follow the culture or customs of this barbaric society, and we are not beholden to your paltry Laws. Therefore if you seeking these … _Potentials,_ as you call them, then you’d best do it elsewhere and out of my sight! Leave us at once, and never bother my family again!”

Mr Barrigar was calmer now, visibly soothed by his partner’s touch (a disgusting display of their proclivities, Draco sneered). Barrigar furrowed his brow at Narcissa’s words and spoke up quickly to contradict her. “The Laws of the Tower are ancient and binding to every soul who stands upon the soil of Great Britain, be they a citizen or not. Our authority predates any modern government. I don’t know if you’re a family of recluses or some sort of cultists, but it doesn't matter. You have shown clear signs of Empathic Potential and as such must surrender yourselves to our custody, as dictated by the Downing Agreements. All of you need to come with us immediately.”

Lucius sneered his most hostile sneer and stepped in front of Narcissa. “You have ten seconds to comply with my wife’s polite request before I become _impolite._ ”

Sentinel Barrigar narrowed his eyes and stepped closer to Lucius. “Likewise,” he growled.

Allerton rolled his eyes and took a strange black box out of his pocket. He pressed something on its side and raised it to his mouth. “This is Sentinel Pair 11, requesting immediate backup at Kings Cross Station, Platform Seven. I repeat, Sentinel Pair 11 requesting backup.” He lowered the box and spoke to Lucius, reaching out to tug his partner back to his side by the seat of his trousers. “There now. We have friends coming to assist us; we can sort all of this peacefully back at the Tower. Please come with us.”

Narcissa’s breath quickened. Lucius was beginning to feel cornered; something he had not expected to feel at the hands of mere Muggles. But these were clearly no ordinary Muggles, and his family was in grave danger. There was no recourse—he turned to his wife.

“Narcissa,” he muttered, ignoring the protests of the taller Muggle. “I will stall them. The barrier to the Platform is just over there; take Draco and run! Leave the cart, just go quickly.” Draco’s heart raced for his father, but it was a good idea—if they could get past the barrier, they’d be safely in Wizarding Space, and these Muggles couldn’t follow them. They could fetch Mr Crabbe or Mr. Nott, and get them to help.

Lucius whirled around, wand outstretched and a murderous glint in his eye. Narcissa grabbed Draco’s hand and pulled him desperately towards Platform 9¾. 

“Guide!” they heard a dominant voice command, and a responding, “On it!”

Narcissa only got about three steps out before her precious son was suddenly crying out, holding his head in both hands and stumbling. “Draco!” she shrieked and was immediately beside him.

 _Wrong wrong, come back, it’s dangerous that way, come back to us! We are safe; we will protect you!_ The strange force was pressing violently against Draco’s brain, making his very body betray him as his knees locked tight and his feet refused to take a step further. _It’s a trick, it’s a trap_ , he tried to shout over the clamouring non-voice, but his body wouldn’t listen.

Allerton had his palms outstretched, and his eyes focused on Draco. He spoke to Lucius, though his voice sounded strained as if he were exerting a monumental effort. “Well—perhaps you two are not Empathic after all. You’d be on your knees right now if you were. But this only confirms the status of the boy—he is no doubt an Empath Potential.”

“How DARE you? Release my son at once! CRUCIO!” Lucius’s roar of anger could be heard throughout King’s Cross. The curse struck the smaller Muggle at point-blank range, with all the weight of Lucius’s fury as a father behind it. It seemed as if the curse would be rebound off an invisible shield like the others—but then there was a shattering sound, and Allerton dropped with a horrible scream of pain.

“Guide down! Tower, where’s that backup? Guide down! Adult male, armed and dangerous!” Sentinel Barrigar threw himself forward, his body covering his fallen partner in protection, and dragged him away from Lucius. The Muggle travellers had started to notice the commotion going on, and moved away to form a ring around the spectacle. There was a Wizarding family among them, the Brewerton’s—a Mudblood family, but surely they would help them …

The mother stared wide-eyed at Narcissa, looking uncertain, but ultimately turned away with her children in tow. She took their last hopes with her, as there came more Muggles in white uniforms that rushed over and surrounded the Malfoy family, pointing strange L-shaped objects at them.

“Freeze! Don’t move; we are authorised to shoot,” said one of them to Lucius. “Drop your … er, stick. Put your hands where I can see them!”

“What do we do?” Narcissa muttered frightenedly, supporting a shaky Draco as he recovered from Allerton’s empathic attack. “If we try another curse and it doesn’t work, they could harm us. They could harm _Draco._ ”

“Surrender the Potential to us immediately! You must obey the Law of the Tower! Do it, now!”

“To _hell_ with the Statue of Secrecy,” spat Lucius. “This is my family’s life on the line. Grasp me tightly, Draco, Narcissa—I’ll Side-Along you both to safety.”

Draco’s hand immediately snapped out to snatch his father’s arm, despite the warning shouts from the Muggles surrounding them. He was feeling that cold, creeping force again, although it seemed less like it was trying to force its way into his brain and more like it was trying to cover every available inch of him like a thick blanket, at once suffocating and safe. It was very disconcerting.

“On the count of three. One—two—three!” Lucius spun them neatly, and there was the loud CRACK of Apparition. 

Except something was wrong—Draco kept turning, suddenly anchorless, and his father’s arm was gone. He overbalanced and fell to the ground. “Oof!”

There was shouting and running; the white-uniformed Muggles started breaking off into smaller pairs, sprinting off in different directions. Draco’s head was spinning, and he couldn’t make sense of what anyone was saying or doing. “Wha—what’s …?” Why was he still here? Where …

“Mother? Father?” He was on the ground. Something was slippery and smelled strongly of copper. He wanted to vomit, and he was _so_ dizzy. Hands started grabbing at him, trying to pull him to his feet. He struggled fiercely. “MUM! DAD! No, no, no, let go of me. DAD, PLEASE …!”

“Sh, sh, sweetheart, we’ve got you,” murmured a gentle voice in his ear, as impossibly strong hands hauled him up under the armpits like he was a ragdoll. Draco thrashed in the grip, starting to sob loud, ugly tears. Muggles were _touching_ him, his parents were gone, and he was _so scared._ “You’re safe with us, you’ll be alright,” the voice lied. “We’re going to take great care of you. You’re one of us, after all.”

Smaller hands rubbed at his temples, and the cold, suffocating force pressed in harder and harder on his mind. The gentleness of the hands contrasted with the aggression of the force, and it was just too much for Draco to handle on top of his emotional trauma. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and he fainted.

•

Narcissa knew something was wrong even before they landed out of the Apparition spin, fifty yards away from where they’d meant to land on the Malfoy Estate line.

Lucius crumpled immediately upon arrival, dragging Narcissa down under his weight. “LUCIUS!” He was unconscious, and Draco was missing along with the arm he had been clinging to. “My son, oh _Merlin …!”_

Blood gushed out of Lucius’s stump of an arm, coating her dress and the grass below. Narcissa struggled briefly under her husband, pulling her body out from under his dead weight, and screamed for help.

“HELP, HELP! TRINKET, RICKETY, COME!”

With a loud crack of Apparition, two of their favoured house elves appeared before her. “Oh, oh! MISTRESS! MASTER!”

“Draco,” sobbed Narcissa, “I have to go back …! Lucius has Splinched, take him to St. Mungo’s both of you, quickly! I have to go back …!”

Rickety was quick to grab onto Lucius and Disapparate, but Trinket saw the blood all down Narcissa’s front and could not understand that it wasn’t hers. “Mistress Cissy, please comes with me to St. Mungo’s, I will takes you!”

Narcissa spun to Disapparate, but Trinket boldly cancelled the spell to thwart her. “Mistress, please, you has bloods all over, you needs to be seen …!”

“It’s not mine, you damn fool creature!” she shrieked. “They are taking my son, they have Draco, I have to go back!! Let me Apparate, _damn_ you!”

Trinket wrung her hands, incredibly distressed and hesitant. “Master Draco is beings taken …? Mistress, you is too upsets, let me Apparate you there. Where is Master Draco?”

“King’s Cross Station!”

With a snap of her long fingers, Trinket transported them both there. There were startled shrieks from the Muggles around her as Narcissa suddenly popped into existence right outside the barrier to Platform 9¾. Trinket was beside her, but invisible to them. “DRACO! No, no, this isn’t the right place …! Oh, where was it, DRACO!”

Narcissa picked a random direction and started running, ignoring the shouts of surprise and shock from the Muggles as the beautiful, bloody woman ran past them crying and calling out with the despair of a mother who had lost her son. “DRACO, MY BABY BOY, WHERE ARE YOU? DRACO!”

By the time she had found where they had stood before, the station attendants were beginning to call 999, alarmed at the sight of her, and she was drawing too much attention. But she didn’t care, because all was lost. She fell to her knees, Trinket fretting and invisible beside her, and sobbed.

The white-uniformed Muggles and her precious son were gone.

•

Harry Potter had been officially missing from the Wizarding World since mid-July, when a panicked Arthur Weasley had Apparated straight into the Ministry from Privet Drive and ran to report the disappearance to Kingsley Shacklebolt. Unofficially, Harry had been missing for a couple weeks earlier than that, in late June, when he’d gone out to the little play park a few blocks away from Privet Drive and never come back.

“Left all his ruddy belongings here for us to deal with though, the ungrateful freak,” Vernon had told Arthur gruffly, whilst using his considerable bulk to block the door into his house. “Not to mention that blasted owl. Took care of that nonsense, though, we did. Hauled all of it straight to the rubbish dump!”

Ron, who had accompanied his father and his brother Bill to the Dursleys under the impression that they were being particularly nasty to Harry again, had to be restrained from hexing Vernon on the spot. “He didn’t come back and you didn’t think to tell anyone, you great oaf? Knowing what you know about ‘im and our world?”

Vernon turned purple and shoved a fat finger in Ron’s face. “I’ll not be spoken to in that tone, freak! Why should I care what that Potter boy gets up to, he’s brought nothing but shame and inconvenience to this house! If he decided to get himself lost or kidnapped or whatever, it’s no loss for me!” He slammed the door in the three outraged Weasley’s faces.

“Let go, Dad, I’ll _kill_ him—”

“Ron, cut it out, this isn’t helping. Dad, should we go to the Ministry about this? They’ve been writing all that horrible stuff about him and Dumbledore, there’s no telling what they’d do with this information.”

“Oh, _Merlin,_ oh _shite,_ You-Know-Who’s got ‘im—“

“Ron, shut _up_!”

Arthur paced a tight circle for a few moments, before deciding. “Bill, take your brother home and tell your mother what’s happening, and then I want you to Apparate straight to Hogsmede and tell Dumbledore the situation. Ron, get your mum to help you find this _rubbish dump_ the Muggle was talking about, and see if you can get Harry’s things back. I’m going to go to Kingsley, and we’ll decide whether to handle this through the Aurors or through the Order.”

Upon telling Kingsley and Dumbledore of the news, both agreed that it was best to keep Harry’s disappearance a secret for now, and handle the situation internally through the Order of the Phoenix. Unfortunately, Arthur had not been careful enough in his panic, and his conversation with Kingsley had been compromised. Someone overheard and had gone to the Daily Prophet, which blew up with news about the Chosen One’s disappearance the next morning.

There was no choice, after that, but to open an official investigation through the Auror Department. The file quickly filled up with speculation, gossip and hearsay, and not much solid evidence. Harry’s wand had been missing from the items recovered from the Muggle rubbish dump, but it was not currently being used, as Harry’s Trace had not been activated at any point after his disappearance. That led Aurors to believe Harry was either under a strong concealment charm, or his kidnappers were being particularly careful not to do magic around him.

The Wizarding papers ran the story every day, and each day the speculation as to where The Boy Who Lived could’ve gone became more and more wild. _He’s been exiled from Britain for his lies last year_ , they wrote one day. _He’s gone to a secret Dark-Wizard-Hunting training camp_ , they wrote the next. _He got tired of the life of a celebrity and moved to a secluded village in Muggle Tibet!_ (That one had been published by the Quibbler.)

Ron was beside himself with anger and fear, and Hermione cried every day. The entire Weasley Clan clung to one another, sick with worry for the boy they considered one of their own.

“Why isn’t anything turning up?” roared Ron one particularly frustrating August day. He kicked a kitchen chair over in a fit of violence, to Molly’s sharp reprimand. “He’s Harry Bloody Potter, how could he go missing without anyone seeing or hearing _anything?”_

Hermione dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, sniffling. “He was in a Muggle neighbourhood, Ron, nobody knew or cared who he was.”

“Then maybe You-Know-Who is right!” shouted Ron. “Maybe Muggles _are_ just dumb animals!”

“RONALD WEASLEY!” Molly shouted back angrily, jumping to her feet. “How _dare_ you? Go outside and cool your fool head!”

Ron blew a breath through gritted teeth, and then stomped outside into the back garden. _We shouldn’t be sitting here moping around; we should be out there **looking** for him!_ He paced around for several agitated minutes, before leaning against the back of the broom shed and gazing up into the clear night sky. _Harry, where **are** you, mate?_


	2. Pentasensate

_____ 

ii  
_____

Harry Potter stared at the drizzle outside his little cell, his chin propped up on arms folded against the windowsill. He hadn’t moved in a while, but even as he thought he should get up, his body remained still and unmoving. Lifeless. Some might blame the rain for his depression. But Harry knew the real culprit—the little desk calendar sitting on his bedside table, the large numbers always visible in his peripherals: September 1st. Usually a joyful day, a day of homecoming, it now only marked the fiftieth day trapped in this stupid place.

The Tower of London. Or TowLon, as its denizens called it, with neither respect nor affection.

Harry kept thinking back to the day he’d been kidnapped from the playpark in Little Whinging, wondering what he could have done differently to avoid landing in this prison. If he’d run faster and made it back to the Dursley’s, would he have been protected? (No. Uncle Vernon would have handed him over to the Tower gleefully without a moment’s hesitation.) If he could have left some sign behind, drawn a lightning bolt in the sand or _something_ , would Dumbledore or the Weasleys have been able to find him by now? (No one had come for him. Did they even know he was missing? Did anyone miss him at all?)

Harry buried his face in his arms, closing his eyes. Thinking like that wasn’t going to help, but it was hard not to be defeated after everything that had happened to him since arriving at the Tower. 

He’d spent painfully long weeks imprisoned in the Science Division, being treated like a lab rat as he was forced to run countless exhausting tests. He’d struggled with senses that were suddenly going haywire, and getting worse all the time. He’d continuously argued with cruel Muggles who refused to communicate properly, who didn’t care one whit about his sanity, who only cared about what Harry could _do_.

And wasn’t that just _par for the fucking_ _course_?

Tears burned behind his eyelids. He was supposed to be going to Hogwarts today, but now he wasn’t sure if he’d ever see Hogwarts again. Why were so many bad things happening one after another? Harry hadn’t even been able to process the events at the graveyard properly before being kidnapped again.

Harry was shaken out of his upsetting thoughts by a soft brush of knuckles against the door—not a proper knock, but a deliberate move meant to sensitise Harry’s ears to the faintest sounds. He stood from the window and turned around as a key turned in the lock, and a tall sandy-haired Sentinel stepped through the door.

David Blanche was a _trisensate_ Sentinel officer that had been assigned as Harry’s mentor on his acceptance into the Sentinel school weeks ago. He was a strict man, but a fair one—and certainly one of the only people that had shown him any sort of compassion (if you could consider treating someone like a normal human being and not a science project ‘compassion’.) 

“Sentinel-Trainee Potter,” the man greeted. 

“Blanche,” Harry responded flatly. Titles were significant to these people, as he discovered. Every person was referred to first and foremost by his or her position in the higher Tower authority.

Harry had always had trouble with authority. 

Blanche sighed but didn’t comment on the micro-rebellion as he moved to stand next to Harry at the window. He brushed one white-gloved finger along the windowsill and then inspected it for dust, which was known to aggravate an untrained Sentinel’s sense of smell but also aggravated Blanche’s immaculate sensibilities.

“Congratulations are in order. It took them quite a bit longer with you than most Trainees, but the Science Division has finally settled on a ranking for you. The Prime Sentinel _himself_ signed off on the paperwork, most gleefully I’m told.” Blanche slid a thin box out of his uniform pocket and presented it to Harry, who took it somewhat warily.

An embroidered patch lay within, to be sewn onto Harry’s official Tower uniform. On it was the crest of the Tower over a string of five stars, representing the five senses that the Science Division had decided were heightened in Harry.

“A _pentasensate,_ ” Blanche murmured quietly, staring at the patch with an unreadable expression on his face. “It is a great testament to a Sentinel’s strength and good lineage to bear five stars.” Harry couldn’t help but snort, feeling like he was eleven and being Sorted all over again—only this time, he couldn’t give less of a damn about the placement or the institution.

“Great,” said Harry snappily, closing the box and throwing it on top of his desk.

Blanche sighed again. “There hasn’t been a _penta_ in the Tower-Trainee program since the Prime Sentinel himself. Most Sentinels would give an arm and a leg to be in your position. Do try to act grateful.” 

Harry gritted his teeth against the sarcastic reply that he wanted to spit. _Grateful_? Grateful to be kidnapped and held against his will and experimented on? Fury rose in Harry’s chest, always close to the surface. He remained silent, seething. Blanche busied himself by indulging his OCD, slowly checking his desk and headboard for dust particles and giving Harry the space he needed to calm down. He really was a decent bloke.

After a while, Blanche turned back to him and said, “Now that you’re officially a _penta,_ the Sentinel Office is issuing you new training uniforms. They won’t get here until the end of the week. They had to put in a special order of the five-striped joggers—plenty of two’s and three’s lying about, but as I said earlier, it’s been a while since they needed five’s.” He hemmed, likely feeling awkward about the small-talk. “For now, just keep wearing your solid ones.”

 _Merlin,_ but Harry didn’t care about any of this. He looked up into the dull grey sky. The rain was clearing a bit, the sun a little higher in the sky. The Hogwarts Express would be leaving in a few hours. Surely Ron and Hermione would notice if he didn’t get on the train and kick up a fuss? They’d tell the teachers as soon as they got to Hogwarts, if not sooner. Maybe he’d even be rescued! He wouldn’t have to wear training uniforms, and the only stripes he’d have would be the ones on his red-and-gold tie. This time next week he could be eating glorious Hogwarts cooking, and moaning about Potions; not going to stupid Sentinel school or running tests for the Science Division. (Harry was beginning to wonder, sarcastically, just how many secret worlds he’d join by the time he kicked the bucket.)

Blanche hemmed again. “Well. Time for school, Sentinel-Trainee Potter. Let’s go.”

•

Sentinel school was located on the first floor of the Old Mint, where Sentinel-Trainees and unbonded Sentinels were housed. Harry was never free to roam by himself, not even just going from floor to floor in the Mint—so, therefore, was escorted from place to place by Blanche. 

School here was nothing like classes at Hogwarts. It was more reminiscent of Harry’s primary school days, except there were kids of all ages together in only one classroom. Each student had their own mentor and spent the morning working one-on-one with them in grade-level appropriate workbooks. Then the students all came together in the afternoon for Sentinel class, in which they alternated in studying from the official Tower textbook and going to the training rooms in the Science building to run practicals.

There were currently five other students in the program, ranging in age from nine all the way to twenty-seven. They’d all been snatched from their homes in one way or another and had quickly bonded over the trauma.

The other students quickly picked up on Harry’s sour mood when he got to class that morning. 12-year-old Hazel Barnaby and 17-year-old Jack Gooseberry (whom everyone just called ‘Goose’) looked like they wanted to ask him about it, but they all knew better than to socialise once school started. Sentinel-Educator Gill had a shillelagh and wasn’t afraid to use it—Harry had the bruises on his backside to prove it. 

So Harry just settled at his desk and spent the morning listening to Blanche quietly drone on about Year 7 maths with half an ear, alternating in staring at the textbook and staring at the clock. He counted down to 11am sharp, and then imagined the long scarlet train leaving King’s Cross, several dozen Wizarding families left waving goodbye on the platform. His Gryffindor friends, if not the whole student population, now knew that Harry Potter wasn’t on the train. His heart stuttered at that thought, but he wasn’t sure if it was in dread or anticipation. Rumours were probably already flying up and down the train. Harry hoped Ron and Hermione weren’t too panicked. He wondered what Luna or Ginny would say? And no doubt Malfoy was making up all sorts of terrible things about him, snickering in that hissy, breathy way of his …

After a pathetic lunch of ham and cheese on rye (dry and bland and disgusting, but useful in keeping a Sentinel-Trainee’s sense of smell and taste dialled down) the class left the Old Mint. They started towards the Science Division for an afternoon training session. Harry dragged his feet behind the pack, Blanche ever his looming shadow, thinking about the Hogwarts Express and the candy trolley. What he wouldn’t give for a chocolate frog right about now … 

The class climbed the stairs to the Science Division and wove around the multitude of scientists and Sentinel pairs to get to the lifts on the right-hand side, which would take them down to the training rooms.

“—ME GO THIS INSTANT, YOU KIDNAPPING SONS OF DOGS! WHEN MY FATHER GETS HERE, YOU’LL BE SORRY—!”

Harry looked up sharply as the loud shouting suddenly filled the main hall, the high nasally voice rising above the din of the other passersby. It wasn’t necessarily uncommon to hear shouts and screams in the Science building lobby, as the Tower assholes were kidnapping a lot of people off the street who didn’t appreciate it … but something about this particular poncy voice gave Harry pause. 

It almost sounded like … 

But that was _impossible_ , right …? 

And then Harry caught a flash of white-blonde hair through the crowd, and the next thing he knew he was sprinting across the marble floor, oblivious to Blanche and Gill’s shouts of surprise and reprimand. He skidded around a protesting Sentinel pair, eyes wide and searching—and his heart threatened to beat out of his chest as he confirmed what he thought he saw. _Who_ he saw.

“MALFOY!” He couldn’t believe his eyes. Draco Malfoy was actually here in this place, being dragged by the arm by a sizeable burly Sentinel while a smaller Guide trotted along behind them. He was dressed in a very rumpled suit, and there was dried blood on his face and in his messy pale hair.

Everyone in the hall turned at Harry’s loud shout, including Malfoy. His eyes (which Harry could see were red and puffy from crying) bulged with shock when they met Harry’s. “Potter? Merlin’s beard, _Harry Potter!”_ Malfoy tried to twist his arm out of his Sentinel escort’s grip but cried out as the Sentinel only gripped punishingly tighter. “ _Ow_ ! Let go! Take your filthy paws off me, damn Muggles— _Potter_! What’s going on? What’s happening to me? Where is this place?” He struggled fiercely, looking at Harry with fury and desperation in his eyes. 

“Malfoy, what…” Harry began, stumbling forward a few steps—but Blanche had caught up with him and grabbed his upper arms in a restraining grip. Harry could only watch as the other wizard was yanked away from him, further into the bowels of the Science Division. 

Malfoy disappeared behind closing doors while Harry was dragged back to Gill to face the shillelagh and more bruises. Separated from a piece of the Wizarding World he so missed, even a disagreeable one, sent Harry’s mood spiralling to new lows.

•

Harry didn’t see Malfoy again for a long time after that. Not for lack of trying—he spent an entire month with his head on a swivel, eyes searching for the faintest hint of white-blond hair, ears open for that distinctive aristocratic drawl. He stared at the door to the classroom more than his textbooks and had been reprimanded by Blanche and the shillelagh more times than he could count. 

Increasingly paranoid theories began to creep into his brain the longer Harry didn’t see the Slytherin. Like, Malfoy had failed the Science Division’s tests and had been tossed out of the Tower. Or his stupid aristocrat bird-bones had broken under the strain of the Science Division’s physical examinations, and he’d been sent to hospital. Or the worst—the Malfoys had come to rescue their son and left Harry here to rot.

Finally, he just decided that he’d made the whole sighting up in a wild daydream. He _had_ been thinking about Malfoy earlier before it all happened, after all, so it made sense that Malfoy had been the product of a desperate, over-active imagination.

Soon after that, the universe set out to prove him wrong.

October 14th was a particularly gruelling day, spent running challenging obstacle courses for Sentinel-Educator Gil in the gymnasium, designed to push the Sentinel’s senses to the very limits. By evening, every muscle in Harry’s body ached, his ears were ringing, and his eyesight was sharp enough to give him a migraine. They gave him a Zone Prevention referral at the end of the day, along with Goose, Henry, and the 27-year-old Asher Vance.

Zone Prevention (or Zed-Prev) took place in a little muted office inside the Health Services building. It was the only time Sentinel-Trainees were allowed to interact with Guides, outside an emergency. Those assigned with Zed-Prev duty would use their Empathy to reset the trainees’ senses to baseline, to prevent sense fugues and zones. In theory, it worked great. For all the other Sentinel-Trainees, it worked great. For Harry …

“Oh, you again?” The secretary inside the office scoffed, snatching Harry’s referral slip like he’d handed her a bit of rubbish to bin instead. “Are they still giving you these? Waste of time at this point, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” Harry shrugged, “… and yep.” Still, he went over to the waiting area and sat down next to Goose. At least in Zed-Prev, they could socialise, unlike in most other places.

“Oi, don’t listen to her, mate. Maybe they’ll get you a proper Guide this time!” said Goose, in a voice that reminded him comfortingly of Weasley’s. “Get someone in who knows what they’re doing. I’ve always said the reason Zed-Prev don’t work for you is that you’re a _penta,_ right, and yet they only assign Empaths to prev duty. It’s like asking a _mono_ or a _bi_ to ground a full-blown Guide; it just won’t work!”

“Then by your logic, the Prime Guide should do it, and like hell they’d give a Prime _prev duty_ ,” said Asher.

“Shut up you guys, my ears are up too high. It’s like you’re screaming,” Henry grimaced. Other than Harry, he was the most powerful Sentinel in the group, ranked as a _quadra._ He was also nine, and they were all a little protective of him.

“Sorry,” whispered Goose, suitably chastened.

Asher was called into the prevention room, and Harry settled into his seat quietly. It’s not that Goose was wrong, per se … but even a full-blown Guide couldn’t help Harry with his problem. Because Harry’s problem wasn’t a _Sentinel_ problem, but a _Wizarding_ one—and it’s not like Goose would know that.

Harry had learned at his very first Zone Prevention that Empathy was a dangerous thing for him. Sweet, soft-spoken Empath Doolittle had been the one to explain the process to him; how her Empathy was going to penetrate his mind to reset his baselines. She’d warned him that it may accidentally trigger some sense memories and not to be alarmed, that it would feel pleasant for both of them. Harry had felt nothing _but_ alarm. He thought about his most potent sense memories—Voldemort in the graveyard—and wondered how in the hell he would explain those images to a Muggle Empath who presumably knew the difference between dream images and reality. The Statue of Secrecy would be broken, and he’d been in _two_ worlds of trouble _._

So Harry had done the only thing he could think of at the time—he internally screamed _Repello Empathy_ over and over again until the half-arsed spell took. Doolittle’s Empathy was repelled every time she attempted to breach his mind, and so had the Empathy of every other Empath they had assigned to Zed-Prev. He honestly had a bit of a reputation now as a freak, but that was business as usual for Harry, really.

Even though it wasn’t effective, they still sent him here when he was spiking, on the off-chance the next Empath would be the one to succeed. They were probably experimenting with him, knowing those scientist berks, throwing him Empaths of different backgrounds and skill levels to see which stuck.

“Sentinel-Trainee Potter.” Harry was shaken out of his reverie at the secretary’s bored drawl, and realised he was alone in the room—Goose had come and gone without him noticing, and he was up.

He was escorted briskly to the prevention room, just in time to see Empath Terrado, another Zed-Prev regular, leaving. “Um, is he coming back, or …?”

“They’re getting another one for you. Just sit tight,” said the secretary brusquely, and then closed the door.

Blanche was already inside waiting for him, seated in the visitor’s chair on the back wall. “Have a seat,” he said, crossing his legs primly.

Harry felt his mood dip a little. They’d never made him wait before, and what was the point? Whoever it was, they’d fail at fixing Harry’s senses, he would make sure of that. After about three minutes of Harry’s fingers drumming on the table, and Blanche politely hemming to get him to stop, the outside door opened.

Harry came face-to-face with Draco Malfoy. 

Harry shot to his feet. Malfoy froze in the doorway, grey eyes widening as he realised Harry was in the room. They stared at each other. Malfoy was dressed in a training uniform similar to Harry’s, except his was white instead of grey. He looked so bizarre in casual Muggle clothes. There were dark bags under his eyes, his hair wasn’t styled, and everything about him seemed soft and rumpled.

Harry felt blindsided—in all his various theories, it had never _once_ occurred to him that Malfoy might be a Guide-Trainee. Guides were timid, gentle creatures like Penny Doolittle and Benji Terrado—the idea of a bully like him being counted in their number was just _wrong_ . Though it _did_ explain why he hadn’t encountered Malfoy for a month—unbonded Guide-Trainees had their own facilities in the White Tower. They kept themselves separate from the greater Sentinel population. 

“Guide-Trainee Malfoy,” came a sharp reprimand behind the blond, and Malfoy finally moved away from where he was blocking the door and sat in a chair directly across from Harry. There was a sharp tug on the back of Harry’s shirt as Sentinel Blanche pulled Harry back down to his own seat.

Harry stared. Malfoy wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I … didn’t think I’d really seen you,” confessed Harry quietly. He felt strange. He didn’t really know how to talk to Malfoy like a normal person. 

“Ah, that’s right—you two know each other. Screamed at each other across the hall like starved bondmates you did, making right fools of yourselves,” said the Guide, whom Harry didn’t recognise. He came to stand behind Malfoy, placing aged hands almost possessively around Malfoy’s shoulders. “It certainly got everyone talking, at least. This ought to be interesting, don’t you think my little Trainee?”

“Yes, Guide-Mentor Rosier,” mumbled Malfoy, twisting his long fingers nervously in the fabric of his joggers. Harry gaped, never expecting such a soft, demure tone to come out of Malfoy’s mouth, and to a _Muggle_ no less …! What had happened to Malfoy over the past month to make him like this?

“Indeed. Well then, let’s get to it. Sentinel-Trainee Potter, is it? My charge here is being tasked to run your prevention today. He will be following the usual standard procedures, and I’ll be here to supervise to make sure there are no accidents. Any objections?” 

Merlin, _so_ many objections. Harry wanted to shout _HELL NO_ in both their faces and run out of the room as fast as his legs could carry him. Him, let Draco Malfoy, one of the worst bullies at school, son of a _Death Eater,_ root around in Harry’s mind with some shoddy wizard’s version of Empathy? Not a bloody chance. The very idea was unthinkable.

Except … well, now Harry was thinking about it. He realised the opportunity this presented. Malfoy was a fellow wizard; Harry didn’t have to hide from him or worry about breaking the Statute of Secrecy. If Malfoy did this right, Harry could actually get his baselines restored for the very first time. He was so exhausted and overwrought from weeks of failed Zed-Prev … it might be worth it to try. 

(The idea that Malfoy would see those vivid sense memories from the graveyard, and experience firsthand Voldemort’s monstrousness, cliched the deal.)

“No. He can try,” said Harry, forcing himself to relax in his chair. Malfoy finally met his eyes, looking startled. 

Blanche apparently did not share Harry’s confidence. He stood, saying, “Guide Rosier, forgive me—but do you really expect me to let an unbonded Guide-Trainee mess with my _penta’s_ mind? I’m sorry, but _no_ . Trainee Potter needs a _real_ Guide, not some greenhorn still in Guide school.”

Rosier’s eyes narrowed at Blanche. “It actually doesn’t matter what objections either of you have, Sentinel Blanche. You see, this little … _experiment,_ shall we call it, was arranged by the Prime Guide himself. It will happen with or without your blessing.”

Blanche, usually so stoic, couldn’t keep the surprise off his face at this revelation. “The Prime? I was not made aware of this … surely I would have been informed if a Prime was taking a direct interest in my ward’s affairs?”

Rosier gave him a close-lipped smile. “Don’t feel too poorly, Sentinel Blanche. I’m sure it just slipped his mind. Now, if you’re quite finished? Let’s proceed.”

Blanche’s jaw tightened, but he sat back down and allowed Rosier and Malfoy to take over.

“Guide-Trainee Malfoy, to your position,” commanded Rosier. Malfoy released a breath and untwisted his fingers from his lap. He leaned over the table between himself and Harry and brought his slim hands to hover near Harry’s temples. Harry tried not to flinch at having Malfoy in his face. The other boy’s eyes looked nearly colourless this close up.

“Draw from the well, deep waters. Breathe with it, like we practised.” Malfoy closed his eyes. Harry felt the intangible force of Empathy swell over his mind, and forced himself to remain still, even as his muscles quivered with tension. “Keep it gentle! Warm the waters,” Rosier continued, looking over his student’s shoulder and watching closely.

With any other Guide, Harry would be internally shouting his shoddy _Repello_ spell at this point, rejecting the Empathy and ruining the prevention. But there were no secrets to protect this time. Harry allowed the Empathy to seep in, percolate deeply and take his mind’s shape.

Harry gasped at the sensation, eyes closing in relief as Malfoy’s Empathy washed away the tension in his body and smoothed out all his rough edges like a pebble being rounded on a riverbed. Memories did surface, but they weren’t the terrifying pictures of blood in the graveyard—they were immensely comforting. Hogwarts at night among the stars, curling up with Hermione and Ron by the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room, the gentle thrum of the lake lulling him to restful sleep (wait, what?) ... 

He wanted it to last forever. It felt _so good._ His own magic seemed to flare up against Malfoy’s Empathy, heightening the sensations, and he thought, ‘ _Merlin, is it always like this?_ _How have I got on without this for so long?’_

It was by all intents and purposes, a rhetorical question. Harry had asked it in the privacy of his own head, after all. And yet, he was shocked when a voice—a particular _poncy_ voice—answered back.

<Sheer dumb luck, as usual, I suspect. And no, it does not usually feel this way at all.>

Harry’s eyes flew open in the middle of Malfoy’s sentence to see that Malfoy’s mouth was not moving. The Guide-Trainee looked just as surprised as Harry to be communicating nonverbally. The river of his Empathy stilled into a pond but kept Harry’s mind submersed.

_‘… Malfoy? Can you really hear me? Have I gone mental?’_

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with Harry’s thickness. <Probably, but I doubt this was the cause. Now get that stupid look off your face before we’re—>

“Guide-Trainee Malfoy, have you finished?” Rosier’s voice interrupted them, and Malfoy startled badly, nearly falling out of his chair. His hands fell to brace himself on the table, and his Empathy snapped away so swiftly that both he and Harry audibly gasped with the loss.

Harry recovered quickly and jumped to his feet. “It _was_ you! You were speaking inside my head! Was that your Empathy, or was it ma—something _else_?” He demanded, barely managing to keep himself from breaking the Statue anyway. He didn’t much care about secrecy at the moment.

Malfoy grimaced at him and looked away. At the same time, Rosier blinked and tilted his head like a curious Labrador. “A surface bond? Well, how intriguing! Not only are you the first Guide to successfully reset this Sentinel’s sense levels to baseline, but to also prove so compatible with him—the Prime Guide will be _so_ pleased to hear it.”

Harry had so many questions. A surface bond? Was that some kind of Empathic connection with Malfoy? That didn’t sound like a thing he wanted. Malfoy certainly didn’t look pleased; glaring at Harry like this was _his_ fault. But even more pressingly—“Hey, wait! What do you mean, he’s _compatible_ with me? Why will that make the Prime Guide pleased?”

Rosier looked down his nose at Harry and ignored him, looking at Blanche instead. “Teach your ward some manners, Sentinel Blanche,” he said icily. He then turned back to Malfoy, and his demeanour rapidly brightened. “Well done! Let’s get back to our ivory tower and get some tea from the canteen before it closes. We’ve got a lot to discuss!” He took Malfoy by the shoulders again and started steering him out. 

“Wait, hold on—!” Harry quickly moved to stop them, but immediately felt the firm, restraining grip of his Sentinel mentor on the back of his t-shirt, dragging him back into his chair. 

“ _Potter_ ,” Blanche hissed, uncharacteristically dropping the rank title from his name, “A Sentinel does _not_ interact with a Guide who does not belong to him unless the Guide has initiated the conversation. You have already been dismissed— _leave it_.”

Harry geared up to argue, but before he could that same cool, pristine force pooled around him and submerged his brain again. Harry’s breath stuttered with it, and he froze. ‘ _Malfoy?’_

<Who else would it be, you dunce? Hurry, before your babysitter figures out what we’re up to—where do they keep you? Give me directions starting from the Science Building.>

Harry pictured, as clearly as he could, the route his class usually took from the Science Division to the old Mint that housed the Sentinel Trainee’s dormitories. He felt a determination that wasn’t his own and asked, _‘What’s the plan? Do you have your wand, can we escape?’_

Malfoy was getting farther away, and the connection began feeling stretched and strained. _ < _ If I had my wand, I would have been out of here ages ago. _ > Without you _, he didn’t say. Harry frowned. He could barely hear him now. 

_ < _ Don’t do … different … I’ll… when I can …> and with that, Draco’s presence snapped away, and Harry was alone in his head. 

“...Well?” With a start, Harry realised that Blanche had been speaking to him.

“Er ... yes,” said Harry, without any idea of what he was agreeing on.

Sentinel Blanche looked at him strangely, but then shrugged. “Come on, then.”

**WORLDBUILDING**

  * Sentinels are ranked based on number of senses that are enhanced in them- _monosensate_ means one sense is superior, _bisensate_ is two, ect.
  * No matter where a Sentinel ranks on the scale, from _mono_ to _penta,_ they are given the title ‘Sentinel.’
  * Guides also have a scale of abilities, from the simplest empathic and Guiding skills up through the rarest abilities of telepathy and telekinesis. Those with only basic skills are called Empaths, while those with more powerful empathic abilities are called Guides. Guides are equivalent to _quadra_ and _penta_ Sentinels.
  * The most powerful Sentinel and Guide in a Tower are Bonded to each other, and become the Prime Sentinel and Prime Guide.The Primes lead the Tower. If someone more powerful comes along, they are groomed as the next Prime.



**FUN FACTS**

  * Anyone who has ever lived on a college campus knows that you don’t call buildings or placed by their full names—it’s either shortened, or given a cute nickname. I figured that even though lots of people are forced to live at the Tower, this university-mentality might still reign supreme, especially by younger members of the Tower. Hence why TowLon and Zed-Prev exist.
  * Penny Doolittle was part of the Sentinel Pair that picked up Harry Potter back in June. She is an Empath with only basic Guiding skills.
  * Harry Potter’s magic enhances his Sentinel abilities, which made him hard to categorize for the Muggle scientists. Without magic, it’s likely he wouldn’t be a _pentasensate_.
  * The Sentinel gene is an ancient Muggle gene that goes back to the days of early man. It does not occur in magical bloodlines. I don't want to spoil anything, so all I'll say is that as a Pure-Blooded Wizard, Draco has some explaining to do ...



**LESS FUN FACTS**

  * There is definite power imbalance in the Sentinel community.The Sentinel Community is like the 1950’s patriarchy, with Sentinels as the masculine aspect and Guides as the feminine aspect. Guides are lesser in the eye of Tower law. 
  * Also there is inequality between Empaths and Guides. Whereas even a _monosensate_ Sentinel will be treated with respect, Empaths are viewed with prejudice and distain by traditional Sentinels and even Guides. Lesser than lesser.
  * As the ‘feminine’ aspect, Guides are seen as weaker, over-emotional, irrational, in need of protection (from others and from themselves.) ((LAME!))
  * You bet your ass that Draco Malfoy will be no one’s feminine bitch~(mislabelled as ‘less fun fact,’ when should be ‘incredibly fun fact’ sorry)



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm making all these facts up as I go along. It's super fun! If you have any questions, put them in the comments below and I'll answer them as long as it won't spoil plot. Thanks in advace—questions will help me worldbuild in more detail.
> 
> Thanks for reading =)


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